tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89914142655342941212024-03-12T20:34:23.577-07:00NoteworthyFor sharing my adventuresPatricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-64060011112221866232012-03-21T17:27:00.000-07:002012-03-21T17:27:54.696-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter 11 - Turkish Delights<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="rcp" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: Cambria, serif;">We
could only get tickets to Turkey’s capital, Ankara. The bus dropped us in front
of a beautiful hotel, the name of which escapes me now, so we decided to go in
for tea and get the scoop on Ankara, where we should stay, etc. We sat down and
ordered tea in the elegant dining room and were soon joined by a young man who
was finally able to get it across to us that he was a reporter and wanted to
take our picture in the carriage just outside. We didn't know it then, but we
had arrived during the Turkish Film Festival, which was being held in that very
hotel. This little bit of information was painstakingly received through sign
language and guessing, as there seemed to be no one around who spoke any
English at all. So the carriage was there for something to do with the festival,
and we agreed to a photo. Well, after an otherwise uneventful stay in Ankara
overnight, and not being familiar with any Turkish film stars, we once more
boarded the bus and began our trip through Turkey. We would have to go to
Istanbul to make our connection with the East-bound bus. As we bounced along on
the hard wooden seats of the bus, we suddenly noticed that we seemed to be the
center of everyone's attention, but attributed it to the fact that we were
foreigners. Soon, however, a man passed a newspaper to us and there was our
picture in the carriage, and the article below was of course in Turkish, but we managed to
figure out that we were "hippelers" (hippies) attending the film
festival. Hippies were still a curiosity in Turkey, and indeed, in 1970 Turkey
was no hippie haven!</span></div>
<span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span>
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: Cambria, serif;"></span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: Cambria, serif;">Henceforth,
due to our enhanced status on the bus, when we stopped for meals we were
ushered into the men’s eating area. This was unusual since women and men
always have segregated meals in that
part of the world. </span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: Cambria, serif;">Our
bus driver through the western half of Turkey was an unusual young man. During
the stops he would come over and talk with us in his broken English, and with
much signing and so on we came to understand that he was a journalist/bus
driver who would have loved to leave Turkey and go to North America, but that
was a distant dream for him. At the end of the first day’s travel he said he
would take us to a cheap room where we could spend the night safely. Several
twisty streets later we were ushered into a room with 4 cots, a dresser and
little else, but it was clean and we began to settle in. We asked him where he
would stay and he said no, he would be driving another bus all night and would
then be our bus driver in the morning! We wondered how he stayed awake, and he
then produced some of the finest Turkish hashish you could imagine, saying it
kept him awake just fine. He then left, and we began to smoke the sample he had
left us. Suddenly there was that feeling of being watched again, and looking up
to the transom over the door, we were greeted by 3 large and somewhat guilty
grins from the men enjoying their observations. We shooed them away in no
uncertain terms, tightly shut the transom and put the dresser in front of the
door, but they still sang (love songs?) outside our room all night.</span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: Cambria, serif;">Another
memorable experience from the bus in Turkey was when a man across the aisle
from us began a sexual act on himself while reading aloud from the Red Book
(Communist Bible). We were shocked and quickly hid behind our head scarves!</span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: Cambria, serif;">The
border crossing between Turkey and Iran served as a rest stop as well as the
office for document checking. We began to leave the bus to get food but were
mobbed by “hungry” men who began grabbing our breasts and our crotches, and we
were driven back into the safety of the bus. Several hippie guys started
beating the men off with sticks, only to be dealt blows that also sent them
staggering back to the relative safety of the bus. It was scary and surreal. We
were outraged! Somehow the bus driver managed to calm the mob and we were able
to disembark, find some food and use the restroom facilities. And by facilities
I mean 2 footprints and a hole. So there I am squatting there, when suddenly I
feel like someone is watching me; I glance up to see maybe a dozen men ogling
me through the opening running around the top of the walls, I guess for much
needed ventilation. I began shouting and swearing at them and quickly got out
of there and back on the bus! These men seemed totally ignorant and bereft of
any social graces, and obviously had no respect for women. </span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: white; font-family: Cambria, serif;">We
were once more realizing how blessed we are to live in a country that has been
striving for equal opportunity for women all of my life, and before that.</span></div>
<span style="color: white;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
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</div>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-10350553617581788472012-03-21T16:27:00.001-07:002012-04-10T01:30:14.550-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter 12 - Guests in Iran<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">And then we were bouncing over the desert sands of Iran, heading
toward Tehran, the capital city. We had been briefed on behaving properly while
in Iran. In those days one could be shot for smoking marijuana, for example. It
may still be that way, I don’t know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">Suddenly I am overcome by my immediate need to find a bathroom.
Ha! That’s funny, since the buses aren’t as conveniently equipped as that, and
we’re about a half day’s ride away from the nearest civilization. I was
urgently explaining all this to the girls when an Iranian lady overheard our
conversation, spoke to the driver and he stopped the bus for me. So now I’m
standing a ways from the bus and the men are beginning to shuffle out for a
stretch. We were in the middle of nowhere, worse the middle of the desert, and
not a rock or even a sand dune in sight.
Luckily by this time, and due to our experiences in Turkey, we were
wearing a full length shawl over jeans and t-shirts. So I tented my shawl,
dropped my jeans and did my business right there in plain view of anyone who
might be interested. So em-bare-ass-ing, but only for me, it seemed, as no one
even seemed to notice! I was given privacy where there was none; perhaps it was
desert etiquette. Dysentry really doesn’t care who’s watching!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">The lady’s name who helped me was Nimtadj, and through subsequent
conversation as we travelled along, she told us they lived in Tehran and would
be honored to have us stay with them for as long as we liked. Her brother was
in Parliament and her husband held a respected position in Tehran. I forget her
husband’s name but it was Nimtadj that we grew to love as we came to know more
about her over the next week or so while we were guests in their home. They
were as fascinated by us as we were by them, and they wanted to share us with
their friends and family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">Strict Muslim rules were set for Nimtadj. Her husband controlled
everything. Nimtadj was not allowed to leave the house without her husband’s
permission, and then only in the company of an older family member or her
husband himself. She had no access to her own passport or other identity
documents, and no title to any of their possessions. All legal documents were
locked in a safe deposit box which was only accessible by her husband. Without
her husband she would be destitute and homeless. They were wealthy people, but
Nimtadj had no money of her own. When her husband chose to do so he would take
her to see their son in university in Germany, or to see relatives in
Europe. But just in order to leave Iran
Nimtadj and her husband had to post a $1,000 bond to assure their return. So
other than these brief excursions (which did not include any freedoms), she
lived in their house in Tehran and she ignored the ache in her heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">Nimtadj had the telltale swelling in her neck indicating a goiter.
When we asked her about it she said it was unshed tears. She was a prisoner of
a system that allowed her no freedom. Her dreams of being free like us and
following the sun would not be fulfilled. This awful realization made her so
sad and we comforted her as best we could, though we lacked comprehension of
the true tragedy of her life. Over the years since then, we have all wondered
how her life played out. We spoke with her about keeping in touch by mail, but
she assured us she would never receive the letters. She would also not be
allowed to correspond with us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">One day while we were guests in their home, Nimtadj’s husband
suggested he take us on a tour of their farm, but Nimtadj was not invited. I’m
hoping Donna and Sharei can add to this, because all I remember from the tour
was the sexual advances made to both of us for the duration of the “tour.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="rcp" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">Nimtadj’s sister and father then
invited us to stay with them for awhile, and they were dear people as well.
During the time we stayed with them, we began to notice the huge contrast
between the standard of living in Iran and that of Turkey, which we had just
left. One day, for an experiment, Sharei and I went right downtown in the heart
of the business district of Tehran and began to beg. We stuck out our hands and
people immediately started depositing coins into them, but we didn’t stay long
at that enterprise. It surprised us that they would view us as even needing a handout.
And, more, it surprised us that they would help people they viewed as infidels!
I hoped we were as kind to people we didn’t even know.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif;">You should know that input for my story will hopefully be given by Sharei and Donna, and the book will be rounded out with all 3 perceptions. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-33274507768405781882011-06-15T09:54:00.000-07:002011-06-15T09:54:55.295-07:00A Walk In My Neighbourhood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cwMJ9pfYTUc/TfZpOPz_6mI/AAAAAAAACnA/YEMZkVPFRJ8/s1600/DSC03454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cwMJ9pfYTUc/TfZpOPz_6mI/AAAAAAAACnA/YEMZkVPFRJ8/s320/DSC03454.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turtle Island & Baby Lilypads</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHL27132Ah0/TfZpIE-J7KI/AAAAAAAACm0/DOwk3Y3muZA/s1600/DSC03451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHL27132Ah0/TfZpIE-J7KI/AAAAAAAACm0/DOwk3Y3muZA/s320/DSC03451.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A turtle I saw on my walk through the Marsh</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KWcJOmZhzo4/TfZpkJ0YJWI/AAAAAAAACn8/SJhXIMfxZyI/s1600/DSC03473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KWcJOmZhzo4/TfZpkJ0YJWI/AAAAAAAACn8/SJhXIMfxZyI/s320/DSC03473.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trail in 'my' forest</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HOjtOaLgU4Y/TfZppaNMpEI/AAAAAAAACoE/39ye4xigLTI/s1600/DSC03475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HOjtOaLgU4Y/TfZppaNMpEI/AAAAAAAACoE/39ye4xigLTI/s320/DSC03475.JPG" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from my balcony</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
</div>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-67527225854579653472010-09-08T09:40:00.000-07:002010-09-08T09:40:40.814-07:00Summer Fun<a href="http://animoto.com/play/JIwVzIudns0PPFx9KlCaHw">Summer Fun</a>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-86748462615556588532010-07-26T12:09:00.000-07:002010-07-26T12:43:29.241-07:00Garden progressionsHere are a few pics of our garden - for some reason they are downloaded in random order, so the best is first!! Didn't get it planted until early July, so the growth is really amazing. Have enjoyed doing this little garden - my grandchildren will love picking peas and pulling up carrots! The therapy received from doing a garden, no matter how small, is probably the best reward - and then there's the vegies!<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hynKIYqI/AAAAAAAAByQ/DRLj__wAs80/s1600/Summer+around+home+066.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498298979710427810" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hynKIYqI/AAAAAAAAByQ/DRLj__wAs80/s320/Summer+around+home+066.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hyO3SKYI/AAAAAAAAByI/JpJ7fiiaiR0/s1600/Summer+around+home+065.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498298973188925826" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hyO3SKYI/AAAAAAAAByI/JpJ7fiiaiR0/s320/Summer+around+home+065.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hxjyxgUI/AAAAAAAAByA/85yS7BBDhOo/s1600/Summer+around+home+064.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498298961627283778" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hxjyxgUI/AAAAAAAAByA/85yS7BBDhOo/s320/Summer+around+home+064.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hxG7jSkI/AAAAAAAABx4/0tX-iw3_dK4/s1600/Summer+around+home+063.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498298953879472706" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3hxG7jSkI/AAAAAAAABx4/0tX-iw3_dK4/s320/Summer+around+home+063.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f66mRBII/AAAAAAAABxs/C9ZVQ4Y7hmo/s1600/Summer+around+home+056.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498296923344405634" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f66mRBII/AAAAAAAABxs/C9ZVQ4Y7hmo/s320/Summer+around+home+056.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f5mY52JI/AAAAAAAABxk/BYpulklIxmI/s1600/Summer+around+home+041.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498296900739782802" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f5mY52JI/AAAAAAAABxk/BYpulklIxmI/s320/Summer+around+home+041.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f5P6ayaI/AAAAAAAABxc/HzHuGpF6CQs/s1600/Summer+around+home+040.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498296894706338210" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f5P6ayaI/AAAAAAAABxc/HzHuGpF6CQs/s320/Summer+around+home+040.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f4gM7S6I/AAAAAAAABxU/Jwufozsdbi0/s1600/Summer+around+home+019.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498296881899064226" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f4gM7S6I/AAAAAAAABxU/Jwufozsdbi0/s320/Summer+around+home+019.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f32S2M2I/AAAAAAAABxM/NwaQ5TqraIo/s1600/Summer+around+home+018.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498296870649607010" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/TE3f32S2M2I/AAAAAAAABxM/NwaQ5TqraIo/s320/Summer+around+home+018.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-41776455705870132992010-06-23T08:21:00.000-07:002010-06-28T07:35:51.308-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter 10 - Where East Meets WestIt was mid-August of 1970. Since we would be travelling by public transportation on The Hashish Trail, we decided to sell "Our Everything". The plan was that Gidonia and Adonia would take the car up to Germany and try to sell it on the base where the two young soldiers we had met in Rome were stationed. Vosharnia and I would go on to Lebanon and look up Hebert whom we had met in the Bahamas. We planned to meet in Beirut September 15th. Vosharnia and I arrived in Beirut and checked into a hotel until we could get in touch with Hebert and get some advice about where the best place to stay would be. The hotel was expensive and we hoped to find a hostel. We were advised that camping in Beirut would be dangerous for 2 young ladies, if indeed there even was a campground there. We had been cautioned about even going to Lebanon as the war was heating up there at that time. In a letter home I wrote, "Well, here we are in Lebanon where it's not supposed to be safe because of the war - but I see no war and no danger - in fact, it's peaceful and beautiful here." We would later see things in a different light.<br />After a couple of days we were able to contact Hebert and he insisted that we move to his family's condo in a very good area. This was some condo! It consisted of the entire top floor of a huge apartment block. There were at least 6 bedrooms, multiple baths, huge living areas, immense kitchen complete with cook's quarters and maid's quarters. The enormous bathrooms were such a treat after our weeks of camping. I was unfamiliar with bidets back then, and I remember thinking how civilized they were! In the months of "squatty-potties" to come on our Eastward journey, we would often yearn for a civilized bathroom! Hebert's family had a maid to do their work around the condo. I offered one day to help her, and she was most upset. The family asked me not to offer to help because it threatened the maid's livelihood. But after all, I was just an ordinary girl and felt sorry for all the hard work that maid did for us! We were invited to go to the family's farm several miles out in the country. The Lebanon of 1970 was a fertile, semi-tropical land rich in every way, and the family's farming business was growing marijuana - fields of that lovely plant gracing the countryside! They didn't smoke it, however - that would have been illegal! Rather they shared their tobacco hookahs with us after dinner in the evening. It was this family that taught us to love the cheeses of Lebanon. For each day of the milk's freshness, they make a different cheese, so from one batch of milk perhaps 6 kinds of cheese are made. We especially loved a cheese called lubne (don't know the correct spelling, but this is how it sounds). This cheese was soft and very mild, and was eaten dipped in white sugar - sounds awful but was divine!! The first night we stayed at the farm (which featured a large, modern house), Hebert's mom noticed that we had been barefoot during the day and then went to bed without bathing. So she told Hebert to tell us to bathe before we went to bed the next night - she was worried about her fresh white linens, and I don't blame her <em>now</em>. <em>Then </em>it seemed a little over the top!! We were henceforth more respectful of our hostess's sheets. We did indeed go barefoot much of the time - it was part of the hippie statement! We weren't really dirty, but were used to bathing in campgrounds, out of pails of purchased water, or in the ocean, and I guess dirty feet just came with the territory.<br />But in spite of our dirty feet, Hebert's mom and her elite friends loved our clothes! We had kept a couple of long designer dresses for special occasions, and they had their dressmakers copy the designs for them; they loved our handcrafted leather pouches that Hebert helped us put together so we could carry our passports and money without need of a purse, and our jeans and sandals. I think they all wished they were hippies!! We became curiosities among the Beirut socialites. One day Hebert took us to see Omar Shariff who was giving interviews at one of the classy hotels in downtown Beirut. The security there thought our leather pouches contained tape recorders and ushered us right in to the great one's presence! We were actually able to stand with the reporters and see Omar up close and personal! A special lady we met in Beirut was named Collette Mattar; she was the wife of an Ambassador and had travelled extensively in the East. She cautioned us many times about going to India. She said that if we went, we would never really return. We would be changed forever and wouldn't be able to fit back into our own culture. (Indeed, it's been a tight fit!) These sweet ladies wanted us to stay and live in Beirut. Sometimes I think about all the places where we were invited to live, and I speculate about how vastly different our lives would have been...Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-68463039131964607132010-02-12T09:42:00.000-08:002010-07-16T20:17:45.195-07:00On Loving LifeI was just sitting in my sun-bright living room thinking how really good life is at this time of my life. I mean, today I have no agenda until 5:00, when I go to work for 3.5 hours - how sweet is that? I have my ticket for a trip to Phoenix the end of this month, and there I will not only see Donna & Danny but also Sharei and Evelyn from B.C. These are friendships that go back 40 years! I'm so excited to get out of Dodge for awhile and get warmed up on the desert! <br />And if that isn't enough, my grandsons are on Spring Break this week so I get to see more of them than usual. Olivia, sweetest granddaughter, isn't feeling well today but I'm going to see her anyway. I truly am blessed, and thankful that my life is so rich & full.Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-64161047567516140982009-08-26T12:42:00.000-07:002012-01-27T19:38:51.349-08:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter 9 - Freaks in Greece<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In Thessaloniki at the American Express office where we picked up our mail, we ran into our friends Tom, Jim, Murray and 3 new friends of theirs. They wanted to take a short side-trip, by train, up to Istanbul in Turkey, so we decided to join them. At that point we didn't know we would later have a second visit to that famed city. We were cautioned to wear long pants (no shorts) and modest dress or else we would invite trouble. We felt such sympathy for the Muslim women who had to hide under their veils and robes in the sweltering heat! But we did enjoy Istanbul. Our campground was about 10 km. out of town, and since we had travelled by train, we had to find rides into town. I remember bouncing down the road in the back of a truck with about 10 other hippies the day we went to see the Blue Mosque. It is so spectacularly beautiful with it's millions of little blue tiles worked in the most artistic designs. It's tiled minarets and the obelisk rise far above, I suppose in an effort to direct your thoughts toward God, and I thought that with all those faithful worshippers there surely must be some upon whom God smiles! On a very hot day in July we visited Istanbul's Grand Bazaar, which featured miles and miles of market stalls selling everything imaginable for a very good price if you were good at bargaining. The vendors preferred a little bargaining to make the transaction more interesting. It was a fun trip, but the culture was a shock - we soon learned that women are of little value in a Muslim country. We realized that our jeans and t-shirts would not be a wise wardrobe choice in Turkey! In fact, by the time we were done with our Istanbul tour, we just wanted to be like those Muslim women and hide under a substantial amount of clothing no matter how hot that was! We were shown little respect when we dressed in our usual clothing. As usual, the most fun was around the campfire in the campground where it was ok to be ourselves and where the men were North Americans! There will be more about Turkey in a later chapter.<br />
On the bleached sands of Mikonos, that exotic island off the coast of Greece, and on Plati Gialos, also known as the nude beach, we first heard about The Hashish Trail. Over the weeks we spent there we got to know some seasoned travelers of the trail named Bobby, a New York stockbroker and Miguel, his brother, a Las Vegas gambler. As we gathered on the beach each evening with some 150 “freaks” (I'm not sure whether the hippies invented this title or whether it was one bestowed on us by society) for the hippie brand of evensong, we pieced together this exclusive route to India, shared only by word of mouth from traveler to traveler. Bobby and Miguel acted as our travel agents, recommending each city and hotel in which we should stay to derive maximum enlightenment on the journey.<br />
Bobby and Miguel had been travelling The Hashish Trail for a couple of years, buying beads, jewels, wonderful clothing from India and Nepal, and other marketables, then travelling overland to Greece, selling their wares, then journeying back to India for more enlightenment! As they told us stories of holy men, yogic enlightenment, Government hashish stores, and Christmas in Goa with hundreds of other travelers from around the world, our hearts were re-awakened to our goal - go to India and find God. The delight in the eyes of these young men as they shared with us was irresistible and contagious. It was obvious that there were volumes they simply could not describe, though they tried. We had to go there! <br />
<br />
Also on Mykonos we met Paul, an 18 year old boy from South Florida, who had just graduated from Catholic boys high school. Paul would travel with us from time to time on our journey to India. We loved Paul and he loved us. After one of our drunken parties with the fishermen, it was Paul's tent that I fell into and slept the deep sleep that only alcohol brings!<br />
Sorting and weeding out our belongings, we began to prepare for the long trail ahead of us, overland, of course.<br />
Up until now we had had an impressive wardrobe, including evening wear, shoes and purses for every occasion, great jewellry – the works! We now needed a new wardrobe, suitable for travelling through some very remote and primitive territory. We travelled to Athens, where we hooked up with Gidonia who had opted to remain in Athens rather than go to Mykonos. We packed up those luscious clothes and shipped them back to Eva, our writer girlfriend with whom we had spent some weeks in Spain. Next we bought four U.S. military issue backpacks at the U.S. Army Surplus store , in which we would carry everything we needed for the next year! We also went to a spectacular wine festival in Delphi, where we sampled wine from huge vats and danced and sang with the Greeks. I was impressed by the fun-loving attitude of the parents with their children. Everyone played and everyone laughed. I saw no tears there that day. Of course there was that wonderful Greek food available at booths set up around the park and so no one got drunk, or if they did they handled it with aplomb. The inclusiveness of children everywhere we went in Greece was in such contrast to the culture in North America, where adults get babysitters when they go out to drink. It was the norm for children to be playing on the floor in pubs while their parents had a drink with friends.<br />
Before setting out on The Hashish Trail we lingered on Mykonos, where we acquired many friends with whom we would meet up from time to time as we journeyed to the East. When we had first arrived on Mykonos, we shunned the hotels in town and went looking for a place to pitch our tents on the beach. Upon cresting a hill between two of the beaches, we gazed on a colony of dwellings such as we had never before even imagined. There were cave homes, tucked into the sun-bleached cliffs overlooking the blue Mediterranean. There were driftwood dwellings, creatively assembled to provide some privacy for the occupants. And everyone was nude! It was just too much of a leap for us that first night, and we decided to move on to the next beach. But throughout the evening we were intrigued by all the sounds of merriment wafting over to us from the nude beach. There were guitars and flutes, drums and tambourines, saxophones and clarinets, shakers and whistles – and the players were making some wonderful music, showcasing a number of remarkable singers. And so the next day we just had to check it out. I moved into a rock house with a rock patio facing the blue expanse of the Mediterranean. Many people slept on the beach in tents or out under the stars. The people were all hippies and immediately made us welcome, helped us find a place to live and made us aware of how this casual community worked.<br />
The weather was predictably perfect – each day blistering hot, chasing us to the ocean for relief. Each night was balmy under clear skies studded with stars you thought you could touch! The contrast between the land and the water was astonishing – dry-as-bone white sand and bleached rocks contrasted with lush, cool, stunningly colorful undersea gardens graced with tropical fish of every hue and description. Soon we had million dollar tans which turned to bronze in the setting sun, and no tan lines! (I was surprised how little difference nudity makes once you get over the initial shyness). This was paradise. And so we stayed for some weeks.<br />
Occasionally we would put on our finest silks and foray into town for some fabulous seafood and to drink Ouzo with the fishermen. These Greeks were so much fun. They taught us the right way to eat shrimp, shared sumptuous feasts with us and whirled us around the seaside restaurant to their lively Greek tunes. We slammed our glasses down to the shouts of “Yachara!” At least that’s what it sounded like – I assumed it meant “cheers” or “down the hatch” or whatever! They laughed a lot, and we were still laughing as we staggered first down the beach and then over the rock cliffs (about two miles) to our hippie haven. The evenings we spent with these funny, kind fishermen are among my fondest memories.<br />
Finally we dragged ourselves away from Mykonos, which is forever beloved in my heart. We resumed our quest for God – for that elusive aspect of God which somehow links you inextricably to the Grand Order Divine, that something which melts the heart and overwhelms the spirit with adoration and goodness. We set out to follow The Hashish Trail.</div>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-9331879927816436232009-06-13T19:13:00.000-07:002009-06-14T06:41:57.564-07:00Gardening<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SjT9flKGc_I/AAAAAAAAAeo/_vWzCIlNHlE/s1600-h/DSC01095.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SjT9flKGc_I/AAAAAAAAAeo/_vWzCIlNHlE/s320/DSC01095.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347177376587871218" /></a><br /><br />Today I found out that my allotted garden plot is 20' long and 4.5' wide - much larger than I had thought. So now I'm in the gardening spirit. I heard from several local people that here in the Great Northwestern Ontario we should not plant our gardens until the first new moon in June, which I believe is happening right now. So I went to the nursery today and got some lovely bedding plants. My friend and neighbor Bill turned about half the garden for me - not bad for a guy who uses a walker to walk! I appreciated the help which was given over my protests! Bill has been a Godsend since I moved here and has become a true friend of mine.<br />I'm planting peas, carrots, lettuce, green onions, radishes, a few beets, and flowers. I have to get fencing for it so the deer don't eat it - that's tomorrow's project! Fun - I love gardening.Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-82268237006933297002009-06-01T19:33:00.001-07:002010-06-23T09:03:28.128-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter 8 - A Bottle of Wine and ThouItaly brings vivid memories of ancient monuments, intricate fountains, roads that wind along above the beautiful blue Mediterranean, “bottom pinchers” and galato. We toured Milan, Venice, Florence, and were awed once more by the beauty and history of this country. When we decided it was time to head for Rome we bought a huge bottle of wine and hit the road. Late in the afternoon we decided it was time to open the bottle, and by the time we rolled into our campground at around 10:00 p.m., we were all rather more than tipsy. Now came the task of setting up our tents and making supper. We built a fire and while Ladonia, who was chief cook that night, prepared supper, the rest of us set up our tents. We were tipsy and apparently were being loud as nearby campers kept shushing us. Suddenly Ladonia somehow lost her balance and sat right in the pot of stew. She jumped up, peeled her jeans off, and miraculously had only a small burn! We simply couldn’t stop laughing at the sight she made sitting in our supper! We polished off the wine and finally crawled into bed. While there had been tents all around us the night before, in the morning every tent had moved far away from us and we were virtually alone in our little corner of the campground. How to make friends and influence people!<br />We spent the most time in Rome and chose a campground right on the ocean. It was called Ostia de Lido. Many hippie travelers were in Rome to see the sights and enjoy some time off the road. Ladonia left us in Rome and flew back to Vancouver as she had some business to take care of. She later met us in Dubrovnik and thankfully brought extra funds for our journey. One day Gidonia and I were walking back from the showers to our tent when we heard loud coughing and guffaws of laughter coming from a pup tent out of which billowed clouds of smoke. We knew the people in that tent just had to be fun! We did manage to “bump into” them the next day and became friends with Danny and Jerry, who were U.S. military men on leave from their base in Munich. Little did we know that one day Ladonia would marry Danny and they would spend the rest of their lives together. Danny and Jerry came to our campsite on a regular basis after that and Gidonia and Jerry fell in love. Many happy hours and days were spend in the company of these two pot smoking soldiers! Our friends whom we had met in the campground in Monaco also showed up in our campground in Rome “for more of our cooking.” They were so much fun, but we never saw them again during our travels.<br />I will never forget St. Peter’s Basilica or the Sistine Chapel where Michelangelo painted the entire dome. It is fantastic! In St. Peter’s there is a statue of the Apostle Peter, whose robe, although carved in marble, appears to be slightly transparent revealing the muscle of his thigh, and seems to suggest the movement of his leg as it steps forward. Really, it is the most amazing sculpture I have ever seen. But the treasury, which is in a separate room inside the cathedral, made me angry, as there was enough wealth just in a display box of huge (baseball-size) jewels to feed all the poor people who faithfully gave their money to this lavishly wealthy organization! It seems the poor always carry a very heavy burden along with their poverty, and that is guilt played upon by (some) churches and assuaged by paying their tithes and offerings. Not to mention that in those days Catholics weren’t allowed to use birth control so most people had more children than they could afford. The contrast between the riches of St. Peter’s Basilica and the poor of Italy was blatant and it made me sad that so-called Christianity would stoop to this level.<br />Driving in Rome was memorable to say the least! While we were used to travelling in lanes and being careful to switch lanes safely, in Rome it seemed that everyone just looked straight ahead and made a dash for it, never looking behind or to right or left. It was terrifying, but it’s miraculous how chaos can sort itself out when it’s not considered out of the ordinary! The Romans took it all in stride, and if we got lost, some handsome youth would volunteer to show us across the city for a ride in the car with us. Rome is huge and bustling, with statues and fountains everywhere, and so much history that one would need years to truly grasp it all. We did enjoy Rome and the friendly people there. Of course we saw the Roman Forum, the Coliseum, some of the San Sebastian Catacombs (there are 800 miles of catacombs altogether), the tombs of Peter and Paul, and all of the other famous sights to see in Rome. We stayed in our campground at the beach for about three weeks and then decided to head toward Greece.<br />Before leaving Italy we decided to look up some relatives of friends Vosharnia had met in Montreal. These people lived in a mountain village named Montefiorino. We just happened to arrive there on the weekend when they were celebrating Easter. I’m sure it’s common practice in Catholic areas, but the whole town turned out to join in a procession, singing as a large wooden cross was carried from the church and through the various Stations of the Cross which were established throughout the village. It was all in Italian and Latin and we understood not a word, but were moved by the devotion and gratitude these people demonstrated. Or perhaps it was meaningless ritual, but in any case it was fascinating. The Christ was white, as opposed to the black Christ and Virgin Mary we had been surprised and pleased to see in Spain.<br />The folks who were our hosts later prepared a most lovely meal; we drank wine and conversed, we in our limited Italian and they in their limited English. It was so good to be in an authentic Italian home, and to experience this homespun culture first-hand.<br />Our route would take us through a small portion of Austria going from Italy to Yugoslavia, and at this border crossing I had my first experience of true suppression. We were interrogated at length about why we were travelling through Austria, but we had visas for Yugoslavia, and were finally permitted to go on. I felt the heartsick feeling of not being valued as a human being, and ached for all the people who lived their lives under constant threat and were not valued. We hurried through that small part of Austria and entered Yugoslavia unchallenged.<br />We drove through Yugoslavia, now Croatia, Bosnia & Serbia which was then a Communist country under the leadership of Josef Bros Tito. Yugoslavia was unique among Communist countries in its relatively open and free society and its international role as a leader of nonaligned nations during the Cold War.<a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> En-route to Dubrovnik, where we planned to spend a few days, we drove over a rather high and isolated pass, and began to notice that the brakes on our car were pretty spongy. With much prayer and positive thinking we managed to get the car to a village, but there was nothing open as it was not a business day. We did manage to speak with a young man who happened to be a mechanic, and offered to fix our car in exchange for a ride to the next town, I believe it was Sofia. His family then invited us into their home where they offered us goat cheese. We tasted it to be polite but were not too impressed. They were cordial and served us tea. Soon the young man came in and said we were ready to go. He had his travel gear with him and we happily drove him to Sofia.<br />We camped in Dubrovnik for a couple of days. The original walled city is rich in history with a somewhat medieval ambience. Dubrovnik is known as the Pearl of the Adriatic and sits on the Adriatic Seacoast in the extreme south of Croatia. We explored the old city at length. It was easy to imagine knights in shining armour mounted on magnificent steeds clattering over those cobbled streets in the long distant past.<br />We didn’t meet anyone in Dubrovnik except for the caretakers of the campground where we were staying, who were Hungarian and invited us to go to their village on a day trip. The lady of the house cooked Holubtsi (cabbage rolls only made with some kind of tree leaf rather than cabbage and a tastier, spicier sauce). For dessert a delicious Hungarian pastry was served. They had 3 adorable children; their home was poor and small, but the atmosphere was very warm and hospitable. The mountain roads in this area were little more than trails, but the scenery was breathtaking. The citizens of Dubrovnik were friendly, quite Russian looking. We immediately noticed the leathery skin and sinewy bodies of the women, evidencing a life of hard work. There were no hippies in Dubrovnik as far as I recall, and we didn’t smoke any marijuana while there. Although Yugoslavia was one of the more liberal Communist countries, it was still fairly uptight and rigidly controlled. I hated to see the effects of suppression – distrust and fear – in these lovely people.<br />We had for some time been looking forward with great anticipation to Greece. So many travellers we had met along the way had assured us we must visit not only Greece but some of the Greek islands as well. And so we once more packed up “Our Everything,” consulted our maps and hit the road.<br /><br /><a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> <a href="http://www.idealspain.com/pages/places/AlmeriaProvince.htm">http://www.idealspain.com/pages/places/AlmeriaProvince.htm</a>.<br /><a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monte_Carlo_Casino">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monte_Carlo_Casino</a>[2]<br /><br /><a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Encarta EncyclopediaPatricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-49162942498197895092009-03-09T14:21:00.000-07:002009-06-05T19:34:18.741-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter 7 - Europe OverlandBefore loading up our Peugeot and heading East along the Mediterranean, we shopped for tents and other camping supplies we would need for camping through Europe. Our needs were few: a primus stove, 2 pup tents, cooking utensils and pots, 4 sets of camping dishes and eating utensils. We were still of the mindset that fancy clothes were a necessity, and so cumbersome suitcases took up a lot of our trunk space. Really, looking back I cannot imagine how we managed to get it all into our little Peugeot. We painted a sign on the side of the car that said “Our Everything” because that good old girl carried us faithfully all across Europe and was something we could lock!<br /><br />We decided to follow the sun all the way to India; we would experience perpetual summer. Rarely did we see a cloud in the sky, so when we did run into a little rain it was a welcome change. We travelled slowly and didn’t hesitate to spend extra time in the places we loved the most. Travelling along the Southern coast of Spain, we camped in a lovely town named Almeria (now a city).We decided to dress up and treat ourselves to dinner in an upscale and historic hotel. I believe it was the Almeria. This hotel has since been completely refurbished, but then it truly gave the impression of walking into the past. Ours was the only occupied table in the spacious and elegant dining room. I will never forget the royal treatment we received there. No less than six waiters hovered just out of earshot and rushed to fulfill the slightest whispered desire. At one point I quietly commented that I thought something would go well with the meal and voilà, instantly it was brought to me. I was embarrassed and shocked that they could even hear me! A lifted finger would bring waiters from every direction, and the wine glasses were never empty. All this for four middle class girls from Canada! Although the food was wonderful, I wasn’t used to being treated so well, and was rather preoccupied with that aspect of the meal. I guess they thought we were rich turistas and would leave large tips, which we did. My lasting impression of this dining room was old world charm. Spain was quite poor then and enduring Franco’s Communist regime; our U.S. dollars were much coveted.<br /><br />As we drove across Europe we were reading a little book called The Impersonal Life by Joseph S. Benner. This book has been called a manual of spiritual teaching and discipline. It is the book that Elvis "had been looking for all his life." He said that it spoke to him in a clear and understanding voice. In this little book Elvis found food for his soul, and devoured it, as did we. We began to practice objectivity rather than subjectivity, and to begin to discover metaphysics, the branch of philosophy concerned wih the study of the nature of being and beings, existence, time and space, and causality. For me personally, it was a new way of looking at the same truths I was taught as a child, but the difference was that it helped me to identify that part of me that was in the driver's seat with God. You can look inside the pages of this little book at: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ISBN=0875163017/peterrussellA/">http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ISBN=0875163017/peterrussellA/</a>#Basically, our values were slowly changing from material to spiritual.<br /><br />We did the usual tourist stops at ancient cathedrals, monuments, and so on in Western Europe and as we progressed eastward, I was more and more in awe of the absolute history evident not only in the architecture, but also in the very lifestyle of the people. They seemed to have a calm sense of having been there a very long time, were more leisurely even in work, and seemed somehow more secure and grounded than people in newer places like Canada. We soon realized that it was really the people and their cultures in which we were interested. We were also eager to meet more hippies and to learn more about the hippie culture. Most evenings were spent making music, eating and visiting around a campfire in our campground, where we met other travelers going to or coming back from the East. From their stories we developed a wish list of places to visit – Greece, Turkey, Afghanistan, Nepal, India and Bali were highlighted as relatively safe and friendly, must see places.<br /><br />Rural France was and is a lush and gorgeous country, with vineyards and olive groves everywhere, and warm and friendly people just wanting to have a glass of wine with us, or spend an evening dancing in a local disco. But when we arrived in Paris, viewed the Eifel Tower, The Louvre and all the other wonders of Paris, my most memorable impression of that great city was that it was a very cold place indeed. There was very little meeting of the minds, or even ordinary friendliness from the people in Paris, who seemed to regard themselves more highly than they deserved. The best of Paris for me was the food, and to this day French cuisine is one of my favorites.<br /><br />One of the highlights of our trip through France was the Grand Prix at Monte Carlo on the Mediterranean Sea, adjacent to the city of Monaco on the French Riviera. Our campground was on a steep hillside which had been tiered to accommodate tents and campers. On our first night in this campground we met several young men who were also travelling east. We never would have known about the Grand Prix if these boys hadn't brought it up! So since we were there, we decided to go along for the fun of it. Two of the boys were brothers from Newport News, Virginia. They were sort of hillbillies with a strong southern drawl, and their sense of humour kept us laughing around our campfire well into the night. Another was a sweet blond boy from California. When the first few raindrops fell we all took cover in the sweet blond boy’s van where we smoked some joints and shared our histories and travel plans. Lucky for me, when everyone left to return to tents and campers, he suggested that I spend the night right where I was in order to stay dry, and I did. During the night the other girls were awakened to the unpleasant thrill of a river of icy water and gritty sand coursing through their sleeping bags and collapsing their tents. This torrent was cascading down the levels above us bringing with it sand, stones, pine needles, and various other debris. Needless to say the boys welcomed the girls into their camper for the duration of the night and the next day was spent drying out sleeping bags, removing buckets of sand from our tents, and trying to get our tents dry enough to sleep in that night. I must say that we weren’t all that perturbed about this disaster; it quit raining and the sun was hot and we had new friends! Most of our clothes were safely stowed in our Peugeot so we had something to wear to the Grand Prix the next day.<br /><br />I remember our excitement as we arrived early in order to get seats on the bleachers set up along the course. We drank coffee, ate some muffins, and talked to people from all over the world who were there for the big race. My lasting impression of the Grand Prix is screaming cars tearing by, the smell of gasoline and exhaust, and a sea of excited people who knew this would very likely be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. I was in awe that we were actually there!<br /><br />We did put on our “finest silks” and checked out the famous and elegant Le Grand Casino<a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a> where the rich and famous from around the world part with a little of their worldly treasure or go home wealthier than ever. The point is that they are seen there – it’s a place that implies that you must be rich and famous if you’re gambling in Monte Carlo. What amazed me most was that when one is behaving in a real way, not contrived, with confidence, people feel no threat and respond in kind. We had a great time there and even did a little gambling!<br /><br /><a title="'" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Monte_Carlo_Casino.jpg"></a>It was time to move on, so we packed up and headed for Italy. We would meet up with the sweet blond boy from California and the brothers from Newport News, Virginia several more times during the trip to India.<br /><a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> <a href="http://www.idealspain.com/pages/places/AlmeriaProvince.htm">http://www.idealspain.com/pages/places/AlmeriaProvince.htm</a>.<br /><a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monte_Carlo_Casino">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monte_Carlo_Casino</a>[2]Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-50517422258920035332009-01-29T20:32:00.000-08:002009-01-29T20:40:10.752-08:00The Wisdom of Eeyore"Don't be surprised if it hails a good deal tomorrow. Blizzards and what-not. Being fine today doesn't mean Anything. It's just a small piece of weather."<br /><br />"It's snowing still. And freezing. However, we haven't had an earthquake lately."<br /><br />"What with all this snow, not to mention icicles and such-like, it isn't so HOT in my field about three o'clock in the morning. In fact, quite-between-ourselves-and-don't-tell-anybody, it's COLD."<br /><br />and my very favorite:<br /><br />"It's always nice to hear about a party - knowing that they'll be sending you down the odd bits which got trodden on."Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-44206596138204703402009-01-22T07:26:00.000-08:002009-01-22T07:32:31.610-08:00MovingWell it looks like we're moving - to Ontario this time! When I come to the end of my life at least I'll be able to say I've lived in most provinces in Canada!!!<br /><br />So I don't think I'll be posting any more chapters of The Hashish Trail until next month. I am now surrounded by boxes and my head is full of things to do! As one by one people express their disappointment that we are leaving, I realize just how many friends I have made in the 4 years I've lived here. I will miss everyone, and am working on embracing once more making new friends.<br /><br />Watch for the next chapter early in March!Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-32149969873256510432009-01-08T23:03:00.000-08:002009-06-04T12:50:16.229-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter Six - Ouija Board RevelationsWe sailed through customs in Montreal, checked into a hotel and got unstrapped from our treasured burdens. With great relief we dealt with the stress and jetlag in dreamless slumber.<br />Well rested we decided to look up some contacts and go to a familiar nightclub to unwind. It was there that we met Norman and Don, with whom we became great friends over the next two months in Montreal. Don and Vosharnia became an item, but Norman seemed to love us all and was happy to spend time with any of us. Well, after a few dinners together it was decided that we should all stay at Norman’s place as he had a huge penthouse apartment and would love the company. So complete with our now somewhat broken blocks of hashish, we moved into Norman’s place. He was completely sympathetic to our cause (to sell the hash) and we did manage to sell a lot of it. Most people, however, seemed to want an intact pound and weren’t too interested in the altered product!<br />Norman lived well – not only did he have a 3 bedroom penthouse in Sherbrooke, but he also had a maid who came in daily and did all the housework. We could not believe our good fortune! We kept a supply of kief in the kitchen and would leave our pipes and other paraphanalia used during the evening on the kitchen table or in the living room, and by the time we got up each day she had neatly stacked everything we needed on the kitchen table in preparation for our indulgences of that day! We spent our days as we chose, but were beautiful and ready to go out when Norman and Don came home from work and suggested we go out for dinner. We listened to Abbey Road by the Beatles so much during those two months that we knew it by heart! It somehow went along with our quest for true love. Even now some 40 years later the first notes of “Here Comes the Sun” will take me right back to Norman’s living room and to the adventurous space we were in. Most of our lives were still ahead of us, and we were confident that we would discover the entire meaning of life on our journey! I must say that although the entire meaning of life remains a mystery, our consciousness certainly expanded beyond self-centredness to a desire to learn how to serve humankind in some way.<br />While at Norman’s house, and during the day while he was at work, we began to play with the Ouija board. I’m not sure where it came from, and at first I was spooked by it because I had always been taught that it was of the black arts and a tool of the devil. But I had already done so many things that were classified “wrong and sinful” that I didn’t think one more thing would make much difference. I always believed that God loved me and would work things out for my good, even if I did things that were considered wrong. In any case, we were hoping to receive some sort of mystical direction as to exactly where we should go next. Over the next two months letter by letter it spelled out our new names (the names used in this story) complete with background information, such as things like where and who we were in former lifetimes, which directional pull each of us responded to, what our individual colors and metals were, and much more fascinating information. It was pure fiction, and although we agreed it was only our own energy propelling that pointer, we wanted to believe its message and we did. One day we asked who we were talking to and it began to repeat over and over again, “mama, mama, mama.” When we asked for direction it said, “Go home, go to India.” We wanted clarification so it pointed out, “Go to India, Go find God.” While none of us had any prior experience with the likes of Ouija Boards and recognized that it is merely a game, I fully believed that God could use any means to direct us. And so India became our goal.<br />One day Norman decided that he should invite his family over. They had been asking him to introduce his new roommates to them and were very curious about what we were doing there and why Norman was such a changed man. You see, when we arrived at his house he was a very ordinary looking Jewish guy, somewhat overweight with low self esteem (but much bravado), who didn’t have much fashion sense. Vosharnia was our fashion consultant, and it was she who took Norman to the stores where he would get the clothes to go with the new man he had become. (Incidentally, Vosharnia very nearly stayed on in Montreal to accept an offer to open her own fashion shop in Sherbrooke.) And so by the time his family came over he was dressed in the latest and hippest clothes, had grown his hair and had his stylist give him a more fashionable do, had lost a lot of weight and was looking “groovy”. Norman’s family were a conservative group but open to learning more about hippies and just being hip! We had dinner and then some wine; of course we offered them some hashish and were somewhat surprised when they agreed to try some! The results were entertaining and unforeseen. One couple could not stop laughing for the better part of the evening. They all wanted to know all about our plans, where we had been and where we were going, our Ouija experiences and our philosophies on life, love and the pursuit of truth. Well, we visited until none of us could stay awake any longer, promised to spend more time together, and sent them merrily on their way with chunks of hashish stashed in the ladies’ handbags. The evening was a complete success and was no doubt recounted in Montreal’s Jewish social circles for months to come!<br />Another significant thing that happened while we were in Montreal was that we went to McGill University to hear a lecture by Richard Alpert who had travelled and studied extensively in India. Dr. Richard Alpert (born April 6, 1931), also known as Baba Ram Dass, is a contemporary spiritual teacher who wrote the 1971 bestseller Be Here Now, which teaches the harmony of all people and religions. He is well known for his association with Timothy Leary at Harvard University in the early 1960s, both having been dismissed from their professorships for experiments on the effects of psychedelic drugs on human subjects . The lecture was about his LSD experiments which led to his spiritual quest in India. His studies under his Guru in India had led him to the realization that since now is all that we have we should strive to stay in the moment. He also made reference to Christ’s statement that we should not worry about tomorrow but should trust in God to feed and clothe us. As he sat cross-legged on that huge stage, dressed simply in the white cotton pants and shirt that is common in India, we were granted a glimpse of Eastern mysticism in his eloquent monologue. His was a spiritual quest I was not familiar with; it was un-churched, yet deeply religious, and profoundly disciplined. The idea of the pursuit of God through long hours of meditation and service to others drew me. I pictured myself as a mystic, in some Himalayan retreat chanting Om, and through meditation and spiritual service to humankind finally becoming enlightened. I longed for authenticity in others and to be authentic myself. Of course I later found myself to be less of a mystic and more of a dreamer, and unwilling to lose myself in the pursuit of Godliness!<br />And so we tried very hard to unload that hashish and get back to Gidonia in Spain. The retreat in the Himalayas would have to wait.<br />Meanwhile, Ladonia flew back to Vancouver and was able to sell the rest of it through one of her contacts there. While there she called to say she would meet us in the Bahamas as a few of our mutual friends were going there on vacation and wanted us to join them. By this time it was February of 1970 and very cold in Montreal – it sounded like a divine plan, and so we made our travel arrangements, and after fond farewells and promises to meet again, we flew out of a Canadian blizzard into the balmy softness of the Bahamas and landed in Freeport. I have never before or since seen such a beautiful ocean as the Caribbean, with its turquoise waves washing up on sparkling white sand. I remember going out on a boat with a clear plastic bottom through which I could see hundreds of feet to the bottom of the ocean because the water was so clear, and could watch the array of vividly colored fish and other ocean life unobstructed by pollution. I wonder if it’s still that clean today. Days were spent at the beach, evenings in the casino, and I thought that I would travel forever, follow the sun and never return to the cold!<br />While we were in Freeport Vosharnia met a young man named Hebert who was from Lebanon. They were very attracted to one another and he invited us all to stay with his family in Lebanon if we travelled that far East, which we eventually did. Ladonia also found an interesting young man in Freeport. His name was Willie (who later became Ronae). He was a scuba diving instructor, but earned money in many creative ways. He even sewed his own clothes and was a fabulous cook. Many years later we would meet up with him again in White Rock, B.C. In fact, Ronae is one of the few people we met on our trip that we ever saw again. I had a wisdom tooth that began acting up while we were in Freeport, and Ronae directed me to a dentist he knew. This dentist gave me a shot of Demerol and between moments of fondling my breasts removed that tooth for me. I was so high on the drug that I was amused by his sexual advances rather than angry. I had never had Demerol before and for the next 12 hours Ladonia and Ronae babysat me while I basked in the euphoria of my trip. But the next day when I went back for more, predictably the Dentist refused my request and I was forced to resort to ordinary pain killers. Many years later (in 1975) when my daughter was born, they offered me Demerol and I jumped at the chance – it was an easy delivery, and I was sure that the euphoria of the drug contributed to that!<br />After three weeks in the Bahamas and remembering that Gidonia was still waiting for us in Spain, we finally pulled ourselves away from that tropical paradise and headed East once more. I always thought I would return to those lovely waters, but so far have had no opportunity to do so. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime places I guess.Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-6177211742257929972008-12-06T20:56:00.000-08:002009-06-04T12:47:08.770-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter Five - Money MattersWe met up with Vosharnia and Ladonia in Torremolinos, ate some of those wonderful cookies from Algiers, and celebrated New Year’s Eve. On January 1, 1970 we put our heads together for some serious moneymaking plans. We had a feeling that our savings weren’t going to take us as far as we already wanted to go. After Gidonia and I shared our Medina story with Vosharnia and Ladonia we all agreed that it would be a logical plan to return to the Medina, buy enough hash to make some serious money, fly back to Montreal, and sell it to friends there. Gidonia decided to stay in Torremolinos with Eva to fully recuperate. And so without fear and further ado, the three of us boarded the ferry back to Algiers, booked into a hotel, and headed for the Medina once more. After purchasing five pounds of kief we went to our hotel to figure out a way to smuggle the stuff back to Canada. We decided that the least conspicuous place on our bodies would be the area below the chest and above the waist, so we used scarves to tie these large blocks of hashish around our midriffs. We three then headed back to Torremolinos where we booked our flight to Montreal. The departure date dawned; we prepared for the trip – hash encased in plastic and tied around our middles. We dressed in our latest and greatest clothes that said you were hip but not a hippie! Our flight was scheduled to land in Malaga, then on to Seville. After some time in the air it was announced by our Captain that we would be unable to land in Seville due to fog, and were returning to Malaga. In Malaga they put us up in a hotel, saying they would call us when the weather cleared and we could be on our way again. The airlines people said we should go eat dinner and have a lovely evening as we likely wouldn’t be going anywhere until morning. Well we couldn’t go anywhere with that hash strapped to us, so we unstrapped it, stuck it in a drawer in the hotel, and went out for dinner and later to a discotheque. Late in the evening we went back to our hotel and went to bed. At around 2 a.m. our phone rang and the airline staff informed us that we would be departing soon, so we hurriedly strapped on our treasures, got dressed and headed to the airport, but when we got there they said that it had fogged in again and we could go back to bed! So back to our hotel we went, unstrapped our hash and went back to bed. Early next morning they called us again and this time we did get off the ground and managed to land in Seville briefly and take off again unimpeded by fog. Of our flight back to Montreal, the only thing I recall is feeling hot and uncomfortable from the baggage around my middle!Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-11248784816410673912008-11-27T06:40:00.000-08:002009-02-10T08:36:19.988-08:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter Four - Into the MedinaWhen we arrived in Algiers we really had no idea how to go about purchasing hashish but were able to get a name and a rough map of where to go inside the Medina. We wanted to get some of the famed kief, which was rumored to be cheap in the Medina, and which promised the best high! Kief was marijuana of the highest order.<br />The medina quarter is a distinct city section found in many North African cities. The medina is typically walled and contains many narrow and maze-like streets; many were built by Arabs as far back as the 9th century. The medina quarter is the oldest part of the city. The word "medina" itself simply means “city” or “town” in modern day Arabic. Medinas often contain historical fountains, palaces and mosques. The monuments are preserved for their cultural significance (and are also a draw for tourists). Because of the very narrow streets, medinas are free from car traffic, and in some cases even motorcycle and bicycle traffic. The streets can be less than a metre wide. This makes them unique among highly populated urban centres. Some medinas were also used to confuse and slow down invaders because of the narrow and winding streets.<br />We entered the Medina through a rather impressive archway and nervously followed our little map through the twisting streets. When nearly at our destination we became confused by all the twists and turns, but after asking a passerby for directions, we made our way up a steep flight of stairs, down a dark hall and into a rather large, bare and shadowy room. There sat a man whose features have long since flown my memory, but who proved indeed to be our connection. We were offered samples, made our purchase and were soon euphorically tripping through the streets. But not before learning that we could purchase a kilo of hand pressed hash made only from the pollen of the marijuana flowers for US $25.<br />Emboldened by our success, we began to absorb the bizarre efficiency of commerce in the Medina. It was common to see small boys as young as 6 years operating a shop single handedly and competently. They would call to us to come in for tea and look at what they had to offer. One small boy coaxed us into his shop for tea. He poured the water from large clay vessels, boiled the water on a little primus stove and served the piping hot, highly sugared tea in small glasses in which floated the fragrant peppermint leaves. While we sipped our tea he showed us his magnificent carpets, and if I’d had a house in Morocco it would have been furnished with goods from this little lad’s store! He was a salesman extraordinaire.<br />After a few days in Algiers, we decided to go deeper into Morocco, away from the tourist traps, to try and get a glimpse into the lives of ordinary Moroccans. So we climbed into our Peugeot and headed south intending to go to Casablanca and Marrakech. We drove as far as Rabat, the capital of Morocco, where we decided to stay for awhile. At a nightclub we met a couple of young Moroccans, one of which was a chef at the Rabat Hilton. His name was Mehdi, but I don’t remember his last name. He invited us to stay at his apartment for as long as we wanted to. Almost immediately upon our arrival in Rabat, Gidonia came down with a bad case of Asian Flu, and we were grounded in Mehdi’s apartment until she got well. She lost so much weight that she was barely recognizable. Each day Mehdi would make sure that she had a pile of kief on the table to make her well. She was perpetually cold – there was no central heating in the apartment block, and no elevators. And so at regular intervals we filled jars with hot water, which she then used as hot water bottles. Each morning I would respond to the calls of bread vendors in the street below, and would walk down the 4 or 5 flights of stairs to purchase fresh hot rolls and bread. Consequently while Gidonia lost weight, I gained weight and for the first time in my adult life put on an extra 20 pounds. Each evening when Mehdi returned from work, he would bring a sumptuous, authentic Moroccan meal for us to eat. It is customary in Morocco to serve the meal on a large round plate which sits on a turnstile in the middle of the table. The men then pick out the choicest offerings from the common plate to give to their ladies. So Mehdi made sure that I ate well and put on some weight – skinny was not fashionable in Morocco. Then we would meet his friend and go to a disco club to dance. I ended up in Mehdi’s bed, where our cultures collided in no uncertain terms.<br />After some weeks Gidonia finally began to feel better and we made plans to leave Morocco. We would have to do Marrakech and Casablanca later (so far, that later has never come). I said my goodbyes to Mehdi. He had plans to emigrate to the USA and I promised to look him up in San Francisco when we got home. We were scheduled to celebrate New Year’s Eve and the dawn of 1970 with Vosharnia and Ladonia in Spain. We stopped at a special bakery and bought some hashish cookies to share with our sisters of the heart. The most amazing thing was that we placed these cookies, still in the paper bag they came in, on the seat between us in our Peugeot and were ushered through the border as if we were tourists, not smugglers. Ah, only in the sixties! But we still looked more like jetsetters than anything else. I had a feeling things would be different if we looked like hippies. But at this stage of our journey we were still trying to figure out just what being a hippie was all about! We wanted to look like them but just didn’t yet have the knack of it. You see it wasn’t just about taking off your clothes and enjoying free love; there was a definite style that was recognized by other hippies and that opened doors to friendship, drugs and more. Mostly it was about trying to capture the world’s attention and show it that our numbers were sufficient to warrant change, to stop the war and to usher in a beautiful era of peace and love. Yes we were dreamers, but as the old tune from the movie South Pacific says, “You’ve got to have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how’re you going to have a dream come true?” And so we tried! I’m so glad we did, or forever after I would have been asking myself why I didn’t at least try to create change in our (still) violent world.Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-67378929455487378452008-11-22T11:02:00.000-08:002008-11-22T11:10:30.704-08:00I Choose to BelieveI re-read my last blogpost and it sounded SO negative! Forgive me....<br /><br />God the Almighty is in control, not the almighty dollah! And so I am comforted in reminding myself that the Grand Order Divine has a plan and purpose and that things are happening for a reason. This I choose to believe.Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-24997165587208334892008-11-16T19:52:00.001-08:002008-11-16T20:54:01.341-08:00Ageing PumpkinsI totally relate - ah the ravages of time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SSDri_KOLeI/AAAAAAAAADc/RHhx5-32CnU/s1600-h/Fall,+start+of+winter+2008+075.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SSDri_KOLeI/AAAAAAAAADc/RHhx5-32CnU/s320/Fall,+start+of+winter+2008+075.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269470550325865954" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SSDrjJ0sJcI/AAAAAAAAADk/DHqhQLVsIqs/s1600-h/Fall,+start+of+winter+2008+100.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SSDrjJ0sJcI/AAAAAAAAADk/DHqhQLVsIqs/s320/Fall,+start+of+winter+2008+100.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269470553188345282" /></a>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-62519945106959697872008-11-13T17:20:00.000-08:002008-11-16T20:47:12.857-08:00Soft white blanketWe have snow! Our town is beautiful again - God has sent us a beautiful, clean covering over the ravages of fall. Since moving here from BC I have come to love the snow! Yes, it does make getting around a bit difficult, but since our town is small the stress is short-lived... If you want to see some really lovely pictures of the frost that preceded the snow, go to:<br /><br />http://tarasviewoftheworld.blogspot.com<br /><br />I didn't get out today to take some pics - besides my camera just doesn't do it justice. So I just spent the day writing,cleaning with Tara, and playing with my grandchildren. How good life is!Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-7742510331447480502008-11-11T10:55:00.000-08:002010-08-21T20:08:07.047-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter Three - Leaving CanadaGidonia and I left as scheduled in September 1969 and travelled by train to Montreal.Travelling across Canada by train was one of the most educational experiences of my life. The grandeur of our vast country was seen firsthand and the changing culture from West to East became apparent. The train trip itself was one long party! I remember being wakened up one morning to the porter shaking me and telling me I needed to get back to my own berth. I was embarrassed and hurriedly bid my sleeping mate good morning and fled to my own bed. Later I learned that they could have kicked me off the train for such loose behavior. Every evening we made our way to the bar car and it was there that we met two very fine young Montreal boys who worked on the train. They invited us to visit them when we arrived in Montreal. This was the first of many occasions when people invited us into their homes and helped us find our way in a strange place. We feared nothing, and I believe we kept our guardian angels very busy as we spontaneously followed our hearts.From Montreal we flew to London, where we saw all the tourist attractions. While there, we discovered that the musical stage production of Hair was playing in Piccadilly Circus. Not only did we see the show, but actually partied with the cast after the show! Hair was spectacularly "Hippie in theme and answered many of our questions regarding the beliefs of hippies, such as the right to dress, wear our hair, talk and in general live not according to the accepted way of life and fashions of our time, but rather according to our own individual tastes and preferences (always of course within the boundaries of peace and love). We began to search for other travelers who could teach us more about this new and appealing lifestyle.<br />
From London we flew to Madrid, Spain. We became irate when young Spanish males followed us, endlessly pleading with us in Spanish to spend some time with them. Or at least this is what we assumed, as we frantically looked up words in our little Spanish to English dictionaries. We did end up partying with two young Spaniards, but the language barrier proved insurmountable, and in our sophistication we thought they were silly and naïve. We did, however, learn that the place to meet hippie travelers in Spain was Torremolinos, and once more we headed south to Spain’s ocean play land. There we met a woman about our age whose name was Eva. We spent three weeks getting to know her and spending time in her home. We also purchased a 1963 Peugeot from a man named Carl who we met over Sangria one balmy afternoon. As lovely as Torremolinos was, we had a quest; through the grapevine we heard that hashish could be purchased at rock bottom prices in Morocco, so we boarded the ferry for Algiers. At our hotel we met a young couple just returning from trekking in the Himalayas in Nepal. They told of Government hashish stores in Kathmandu, of Sherpas who served as guides on treks, and of warmhearted Nepalese families living along the trekking routes who would love to have you stay with them for the night, feed you and send you on your way refreshed and happy, and all this just to get a glimpse of North American culture.They related their near death experience as dysentery ravaged their bodies; they were many days’ walk from the nearest clinic and had no strength to get there. It was a passing Nepalese man who eventually saved their lives, took them home with him. His family then nursed them back to health. Hearing these two young people tell their stories set up a yearning in Gidonia and me to travel to the Far East, and just maybe the hashish in Algiers could finance the trip! (Note: A Sherpa is a member of a people originally from Tibet who live on the southern slopes of the Himalayan range in Nepal and Sikkim. Sherpas are noted for their mountaineering skills and many of them work as guides for mountaineers or hikers in the Himalayan range.)Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-74153749954152196682008-11-01T16:25:00.000-07:002009-06-04T12:55:33.513-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter Two - TarashiaMy search for God must have begun as soon as I was born, for I have no conscious memory of it ever beginning. My dad was a hell fire and brimstone kind of preacher. He didn’t just decide one day to pick the ministry for a career – God called him. One day he was a drinking, gambling sawmill worker, the next he was looking for a place to preach the gospel. He even quit drinking and smoking cigarettes overnight. My dad wasn’t a half-way kind of guy. When he decided to repent of his wicked ways and follow God’s call, he jumped right into that crimson fountain and got himself redeemed. Shortly after that he and my mom moved with my sister and me to the west coast of Vancouver Island to a place called Esperanza Inlet. There was a hospital there staffed by people like Dad & Mom who wanted to work for God in serving humankind. Dad & Mom had come out to British Columbia from Saskatchewan, and now found themselves in the Graveyard of the Pacific with no experience of the ocean. Dad drove the school boat and Mom cooked, cleaned and did child care for the staff of the hospital.<br />We moved about every two years as I grew up. At five years of age I had my first personal encounter with God. From there on I sort of coasted. I was a good kid – active in Mom & Dad’s church, even a leader to some extent. But when I left home and was away from the structure of our family life, I sort of went nuts. I had so much freedom! I couldn’t believe how much fun I could have. Well, being my daddy’s type of personality, I jumped right in and never really had a good visit with God until I decided to search for that in India.<br />As I began to traverse the work-a-day world I knew there had to be more excitement and fun somewhere – I figured I had to be in the wrong place. Well, after a few moves and changes of province, I ended up in Vancouver. And that’s when I met Gidonia. I was working for a shipping company as secretary to the Manager, and Gidonia worked for the same company as a bookkeeper. She seemed to be having so much fun, and I decided to find out why. We started going for drinks at the Devonshire Hotel after work. One night we bumped into a friend, Paul, who said he had some hashish. “Aha”, I thought, “here’s my chance.” Off we went to his apartment for a smoke. I spent the next couple of hours laughing – mostly at what a huge cosmic joke life is - and yet how fabulously beautiful it is when seen through marijuana-high eyes. My mind began to come alive and a deeply locked part of me began to open. Now people might still not realize it, but that herb has some wonderful properties, and contrary to what some would have us believe, addiction isn’t one of them.<br />It’s important to understand what a huge step it was for me to smoke marijuana, especially in 1967 and with my background. It was definitely up there with the rebellion heavies. So I was a little nervous, but a few days later Gidonia invited me to her place and we spent an hour in the coat closet smoking joints – it was a way to get the maximum kick from the weed. I was initiated.<br />In the few months following my induction I got to know Vosharnia and Adonia, and the four of us began to do some socializing. All of us were looking for a change of pace and lifestyle. We decided that Gidonia and I would go to Europe in September of that year (1969), and that Vosharnia and Adonia would meet us in Spain on New Year’s Eve. And so we began our journey.Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-39293062248770125942008-10-27T22:08:00.000-07:002009-06-04T12:52:17.115-07:00The Hashish Trail - Chapter One - 1969It was 1969 and the hippie<a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a> buzz was all about travel and identifying with other cultures. We had walked in many a peace rally in protest of the war in Viet Nam. But with no noticeable results, we realized that our world needed more than a change in leadership. Therefore many young people were headed to the Far East in search of enlightenment. We were really searching for God and the entire meaning of life. We felt that we somehow had to transcend materialism and rather cultivate freedom, peace and love. “Love the One You’re With” carried us into the arms of many an unlikely boy! People were turning on, dropping out and tuning in to being here now, - giving your attention to the moment, which of course is all there really is for sure – past gone, future uncertain.<br />We were swept up in the newness of this concept in our time, fascinated by the possibility that one could actually drop out of the rat race of getting a job, pushing for success and accumulating all the stuff that says to the world “We made it!” Just maybe we could start, or fall into, a culture where peace and love were the indicators of success. Maybe we could raise children who would never experience hatred or war or the lust for power. The idea of transcending the prevailing notion that one must keep up with the Joneses was so captivating that we began to talk of ways to make it happen.<br />Early that year four young ladies devised a plan which would take them half way around the world and would forever change their consciousness. This is their story.<br /><a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a>A hippie is defined by the English Dictionary as a young person, especially in the1960s, who rejected the accepted social and political values of their time and proclaimed a belief in universal peace and love. Hippies often dressed unconventionally, lived communally, and used psychedelic drugs.<br /><a style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=8991414265534294121#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Wikipedia EncyclopediaPatricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-39666277182985395452008-10-27T12:40:00.000-07:002008-10-27T12:53:48.621-07:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbdJqOX0I/AAAAAAAAACI/P_CjXpzUByU/s1600-h/DSC00650.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261923402252181314" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbdJqOX0I/AAAAAAAAACI/P_CjXpzUByU/s320/DSC00650.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbcGnd2LI/AAAAAAAAACA/-1oX84AKvaI/s1600-h/DSC00668.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261923384255436978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbcGnd2LI/AAAAAAAAACA/-1oX84AKvaI/s320/DSC00668.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbbvWDvVI/AAAAAAAAAB4/lreFugoe20w/s1600-h/DSC00669.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261923378008407378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbbvWDvVI/AAAAAAAAAB4/lreFugoe20w/s320/DSC00669.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbanFnyQI/AAAAAAAAABw/TXT2ECuFO8E/s1600-h/DSC00665.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261923358612113666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbanFnyQI/AAAAAAAAABw/TXT2ECuFO8E/s320/DSC00665.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbaDGJJ1I/AAAAAAAAABo/hq5Z5KeUsmM/s1600-h/DSC00663.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261923348950624082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYbaDGJJ1I/AAAAAAAAABo/hq5Z5KeUsmM/s320/DSC00663.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>More pics.</div></div></div></div></div>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-16388450252069566242008-10-27T12:25:00.001-07:002008-10-27T12:40:02.853-07:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYzMxIsTI/AAAAAAAAABg/NCq87KMUMH4/s1600-h/DSC00661.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261920482508714290" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYzMxIsTI/AAAAAAAAABg/NCq87KMUMH4/s320/DSC00661.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYyc1VmUI/AAAAAAAAABY/MhuEUttNjGo/s1600-h/DSC00643.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261920469641435458" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYyc1VmUI/AAAAAAAAABY/MhuEUttNjGo/s320/DSC00643.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYxgMfU2I/AAAAAAAAABQ/MGPkO8-3hCI/s1600-h/DSC00630.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261920453363979106" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYxgMfU2I/AAAAAAAAABQ/MGPkO8-3hCI/s320/DSC00630.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYxH-cjOI/AAAAAAAAABI/j2I0vETWUPo/s1600-h/DSC00635.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261920446862626018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYxH-cjOI/AAAAAAAAABI/j2I0vETWUPo/s320/DSC00635.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYwTkc-OI/AAAAAAAAABA/-81dMZ8ePSM/s1600-h/DSC00629.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261920432794958050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WffFkakWhXo/SQYYwTkc-OI/AAAAAAAAABA/-81dMZ8ePSM/s320/DSC00629.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Here are some of the photos I said I would include.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8991414265534294121.post-9562185362991495582008-10-26T17:50:00.000-07:002008-10-27T12:18:06.744-07:00Ocean Memories<span style="font-size:85%;">I took a vacation in BC in August -here's a video taken on a walk with Sheri (my niece) in Stanley Park. Have also included some snaps taken in September around home. I'm so taken with my new toys - digital camera and laptop. I've been saying for years that one day the price of laptops will go down to an affordable level, and that day is here! So now I have to quit procrastinating and at least record some memoirs here, or at best scenario actually finish writing my book! </span><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwIi4O0dA2_sLDasqxKJJ67e-_71xLt09vCpySKEQj0ex-etlSf9gWZ_mZqVM7-2mCOpTeviVz_mu95frg1Dg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><p></p><p> </p>Patricia Wardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04697745149651046894noreply@blogger.com0